


Supremacy

by Savva



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:17:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savva/pseuds/Savva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, true happiness lies right in front of us. Sometimes, we are just too blind to notice, or, perhaps, our big dreams and plans blur our vision. Blaise Zabini/Hermione Granger. Also featured Hermione/Kingsley and Hermione/Lucius. AU. OOC.</p><p>There will be drama and betrayal. Dirty secrets will come out, and our heroine's beliefs and hopes will be royally screwed. Please, be aware of major, and I mean that, major angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to my alpha Quilter and beta Dany.
> 
> Also, just as usual, in its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, blah, blah, blah, this work is only intended to be transformative commentary and all that jazz. Still no profit is being made from this work.

 

**_Supremacy_ **

****

_Wake to see - your true emancipation is a fantasy. *****_

****

**Prologue**

Tick, tick, tick: the mechanical sound seemed annoyingly loud and nauseatingly soulless, thought it did at least fill the silence with something. The fact that he couldn't sleep didn't surprise him in the least. He had foreseen that he wouldn't be able simply to close his eyes and let go. It wasn't going to work, not tonight, not here, and not with her in his arms.

 

He had selfishly kept her awake for hours, trying to prolong that elusive moment of ecstasy as long as possible. Time, however, had easily won this round. The witch, whom he had completely worn out, had eventually succumbed to exhaustion and dozed off, unwittingly leaving him to a tete-a-tete with that murderously slow ticking of the clock on the wall and his thoughts. Having been caught in his own trap, he braced himself for a sleepless night.

 

For as long as he could remember, Blaise Zabini had fancied himself a clever wizard, but now, as he lay in her bed, he wasn't certain any more. Doubts, those foul, bloodthirsty, nocturnal beasts, sensed his vulnerability and crawled from every dark corner of his mind, clearly hoping for a feast. No armour could shield him against their sharp teeth, except, maybe, the first rosy glint of dawn. Alas, sunrise was still a few hours away, and that meant absolutely no escape for now.

 

He wasn't pleased with himself, to put it mildly. He had known that it would be trouble even before the first kiss, and yet he had stubbornly, or, better yet, insanely, decided to continue. It had been a bloody train wreck waiting to occur, and still he had deliberately let it come to this. The knowledge that all of it was happening only because she had had one drink over her limit hadn't stopped him. Even the fear of losing her friendship had caused no more than a mere millisecond of hesitation. The blunt truth was that he had deliberately taken advantage of her: he hadn't stopped her from drinking that last glass of champagne, nor had he stopped her when she kissed him.

 

Blaise suppressed the urge to look for a nice way to put it, because there wasn't any: he had taken advantage of the one girl who meant the world to him. Apparently, he was neither a gentleman nor a clever wizard. On the contrary, he was an egoistic fool, and, even worse, an egoistic fool in love. Moreover, he couldn't bring himself to regret what he had done, even for a moment. Consequences be damned! He had been given a chance, and he had taken it. Frankly, he had been too far gone to care. Her body had been warm and soft against his; her heavy, tangled curls had covered his chest; her skin had shimmered softly in the moonlight, and she had been his. Yes, for those few hours, she had been his, and that was what mattered. Come morning or mayhem, he would always have this night embossed in his mind and heart.

 

Of course, he still had enough wit to understand that, in the morning, nothing would stop her from leaving him, definitely not his pathetic feelings for her. She would forget about him in a trice, eager to live her life, pursue her dreams, and fulfil her hopes. Tomorrow, he would watch her go, telling himself over and over again that, after all, they could never have had a future, that they came from different worlds and wanted different things from life. He would remind himself that he was just an arrogant, indifferent aristocrat, who couldn't be bothered with such a trivial thing as the fate of the world around him, while she was right at the opposite extreme, with her heart always ready to care about everyone and everything, just not about him: not, at least, the way he wanted her to care. And he would try his best not to dwell on how perfectly, despite all their differences, they had been suited to each other.

 

All of it would certainly come tomorrow, and he wasn't so idiotic as to hope that the ending would be as pleasurable as the start. For now, however, there was that comforting tickling in his ears, the soothing breathing of a sleeping girl, the scent of jasmine in his nostrils, and a false sense of content.

 

Tick, tick, tick: time once again defeated him, and the amber fire of dawn took him by surprise. The witch in his arms stirred, marking the beginning of the end. Instinctively, he tightened his grip on her, not ready to let her go just yet, needing just a few more hours, minutes, seconds with her. Pensively, he gazed at his useless wand. Regrettably, no amount of magic could keep time from passing or the sun from rising.

 

Tick, tick, tick: soon daylight filled the room with unbearably bright, morning light. Blaise was instantly aware that she had awoken, and, by the time her chocolate irises found his, he was prepared, his imperturbable façade already in place. He felt her stiffen, and heard her draw a sharp breath. A dark pink blush flamed in her cheeks, and she managed a shaky: "Blaise?"

 

He flashed her his best toothy smile, and murmured, as light-heartedly as he could manage: "Morning, Granger," though his traitorous, possessive arms still kept her in his embrace.

 

"Did we?" she inquired, blushing even more, though not trying to disentangle herself from him.

 

"Yep, we did, Granger. We have finally done it: we have lived up to the expectations of the masses! They have been talking about it for four years, and now it's official: we are friends with benefits," he declared brightly, and was rewarded with such a look of horror on Hermione's face that he couldn't quite decide if it was insulting or downright funny.

 

"Oh, God!" she whispered. "I'll never drink again, I swear." Then she focused her accusatory stare on him. "You were supposed to hold it better than I. You promised!"

 

"Sorry, darling," he drawled nonchalantly. "It was our last night at Uni, and I lost it. I can't be always perfect, and you should have known that champagne is not a food group. Then again, there's nothing wrong with disgusting, drunken sex with your best Uni friend."

 

At this, she actually snorted, swatted his shoulder, and exclaimed: "Bastard!" Then she added, blushing slightly again: "Was it really disgusting?"

 

He buried his face in her hair and whispered, letting his real feelings seep through just a bit: "Relax, Granger. It was marvellous; you were brilliant as always." With difficulty, he willed his arms to let go of the curly-haired witch, and, lifting her gently from his chest, he set her on the pillow and kissed her freckled nose. "I don't really remember much, though," he lied. "We were both pretty pissed." Then he swiftly rolled off the bed, and, saying: "I need the loo. Now," dashed through the narrow doorway and slammed the door behind him.

 

In the porcelain sanctuary of the bathroom, he hoped that the icy water would calm him, and it did. He felt much better after a shower, and, more important, he was ready to face her again. When he emerged, she was still in the bed, waiting for him and watching him intently. With a purposeful spring in his steps, he went to the corner where he had carelessly abandoned his trousers last night, and put them on, deliberately looking everywhere but at her.

 

"Blaise," she called, her voice gentle and with an apparent lingering hint of concern. "Are you all right?"

 

Blaise groaned inwardly: the last thing he needed was for her to worry about him. "Don't be silly, witch! I am peachy, absolutely, utterly, bloody brilliant," he answered quickly, maybe too quickly to be believable. "We are finally free! We have our whole lives ahead of us!" He found his shoes under the bed and his shirt under the chair, and fixed all his attention on the little mother-of-pearl buttons, painstakingly closing them one by one.

 

"But we are still friends, aren't we?" Hermione's barely audible whisper forced him finally to look at her. She was biting her bottom lip and looking at him with something dangerously resembling longing.

 

Rapidly crossing the room, he cupped her face and muttered: "Honestly, Granger, you can be so thick, sometimes. Of course we are: you won't get rid of me that easily. I fully intend to take advantage of our relationship when you become highly important and powerful. I may even blackmail you." He chuckled and kissed her, and something that had been intended to be just a quick peck on the lips accidentally turned into a long, hard, and passionate kiss, definitely not the sort that  _friends_  would have shared.

 

Next minute, he let go of her, turned on his heel, and walked out of the room, throwing a parting phrase over his shoulder: "You'd better get going, girl! Or you are going to miss graduation." A sudden frantic rustling and the hurried sound of bare feet on the floor behind him made him pause, and he suddenly hoped, silly and illogical though it was, that she would stop him from leaving. The opening and closing of the bathroom door banished this fantasy at once, and he left.

 

Once outside, he stopped and stared at her window for a while. He knew that he wouldn't go to the ceremony. He simply couldn't bear to see her again. And even though he managed to come up with a dozen reasons why it was the right thing to do, it still looked suspiciously like running away from her, or, more precisely, from himself.

 

*Muse/Supremacy


	2. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins...

 

**_Supremacy_**

_Wake to see - your true emancipation is a fantasy *****_

**_I_**

_I probably still adore you with your hand around my neck,_

_Or I did last time I checked_ **

 

 

The foyer of the East Coast Magical Transportation Department was decorated with the clear intention to impress, but, in Blaise's opinion, it was just annoyingly pretentious. The stark contrast between its blood-crimson walls and black contemporary crafted furniture hurt his eyes, that early in the morning. Moreover, the girl responsible for the Portkey activation was unforgivably late, and he had been forced to wait for her arrival.

 

Lacking any other options, he sat on an uncomfortable black leather bench and listened to the hysterical sounds of Manhattan in the morning. During the year that he had spent there, he had learned that the city was utterly crazy, most of the time. Yet it was its mornings, filled with the constant honking of half-mad taxi-drivers, the beeping of delivery trucks backing up, and the occasional wailing of a police siren, that struck him as the most frenetic part of the day. The twisted faces of New Yorkers as they darted hastily down the boardwalks of Manhattan, frantically squeezing paper coffee cups, were the finishing touch to the picture of that collective morning madness.

 

Surprisingly, and despite his love for everything bold, loud, and lively, he hadn't fallen in love with New York. He didn't hate it, and he did appreciate its uniqueness, of course. Honestly, who wouldn't? The city was magnificent, in its own acutely insane, often irritating, but still, somehow, undeniably charming way. He just didn't feel at home here. Perhaps it wasn't the city's fault at all.

 

The pathetic truth was that not a day had gone by without his thinking about going back to England, or, more precisely, going back to her. He had expected to get over this penchant:  _forget_   _and move on_  had been his objective, and the primary reason he had taken this job in the New York office of the Magical Intergovernmental Criminal Commission (MICC). Alas, with every passing month, his resolve had been getting weaker and weaker, and so had his chances of moving on and finding someone else. To make matters worse, the stubborn witch had kept writing to him every other month, forcing him to reply. It had been a mistake to let her know where he had gone - a mistake that he had made in a moment of weakness, which was now sending his whole plot up the chimney.

 

He thought back to his last meeting with his mates. It had taken place fourteen months ago, right before he had gone across the pond. They had gathered at the Manor for a drink and ended up listening to Theo's frustrated grumbling. That usually calm and suave wizard had been extremely disappointed by Blaise's decision to leave London, as he had had rather high hopes of using Blaise's degree in International Wizarding Law, which was rare among the magic people, in his Department of International Liaisons.

 

_"Why on Earth do you have to go to America?" Theo asked grouchily for the umpteenth time. "I've heard all that drivel about Granger's not loving you and all, but why bloody America? Why can't you just find yourself another witch? There are plenty of them around."_

_Blaise just grunted wearily and said nothing._

_"He has to forget her first, mate," Draco explained patiently. "In time, you'll understand," he continued, contemplatively eyeing his irritated friend. "Then again, maybe not," he added, after a pause._

_"Why are you so fucking mad about her?" Theo kept pressing the issue, completely ignoring Draco's explanation and moodily swirling his drink in the centuries-old crystal glass. "She isn't so very extraordinary, if you ask me. Not someone I'd ruin my career over, anyway."_

_"She has a heart-stopping arse, Theo! That's enough of a reason, I reckon," Blaise offered half-jokingly, though he only managed a shadow of a smile._

_"She does? I've never noticed." For a moment, Theo looked thoughtful._

_"Yep, I hear you, mate! It's as good a reason as any, I'll say," Draco interjected, dreamily sipping his firewhisky. "I wonder, though, if it's a special Gryffindor trait: heart-stopping arses, I mean." He gave Blaise a conspiratorial look, and they both chuckled._

_"Balls!" growled Theo, and finished his drink._

_"Oh, come on, Theo! You know exactly what we're talking about," said Draco laughing, "I saw you ogling that ginger girl, the Weasel one. She has a nice arse, too."_

_"Bugger off, you bloody fool," retorted Theo, though his lips did curl upward. "I did no such thing!"_

Blaise smiled at the memory of their drunken conversation and sighed. Theo had still kept fastidiously reminding him about that open position in his department, perhaps sensing that he would return to England sooner rather than later. And, of course, the bastard had been absolutely right, as always.

 

Actually, he hadn't planned to go back as soon as that. Yes, the need to see Granger was growing every day, becoming harder and harder to ignore. He, however, was still harbouring hope, and wasn't yet ready to capitulate. He knew that she was all right. Draco had looked after her, just as he had promised him: being an Auror, he worked on the same floor anyway. He had even managed to befriend her, though Blaise suspected that the real reason lay in Draco's need to keep an eye on and be close to Potter, even after hours. Working together, apparently, wasn't quite enough. "What a control freak," he muttered, shaking his head in amusement: his friend was about as far-gone as he was, and about as hopeless, too.

 

It had been an urgent missive from Draco, which Blaise had received thirty-six hours ago, that had changed the situation so drastically. Draco had informed him that Hermione's father had died, and that she was going to Australia, alone, because neither her friends nor Draco himself could accompany her there. Blaise's heart tightened painfully at the thought of Hermione's attending her father's funeral by herself. Knowing that she would have to watch the ceremony from afar and under the Glamour Charm, he imagined how utterly lonely she would feel.

 

After the war, Hermione had never managed to restore her parents' memories. She had gone to Australia with Potter and tried to reverse the spell, but with no success. It had been a hard blow for her and a devastating addition to the losses of the war. Alas, after her failure, there was nothing to do but go back to England with empty hands and a heavy heart. Luckily, Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister, had stepped in and got Australian Magical Law Enforcement to collaborate, convincing them that a rogue Death Eater might appear on Dr Granger's threshold at any moment, and that they were in need of constant surveillance and protection. Thanks to that action, which had given Hermione a certain peace of mind, she had learned of her father's untimely death.

 

After receiving Draco's letter, Blaise had sprung into action immediately, trying to get to London as soon as possible. Unfortunately, he had received it on a Saturday night in New York, and it hadn't been easy to force anything out of anyone during the weekend. He had frantically pulled all the strings he could, trying and failing to get a Portkey to England. In desperation, he had got in touch with his mum, and finally, after Nina Zabini had Floo-called a few high-profile wizards of her  _acquaintance_ , he had finally had a transatlantic Portkey booked for Monday at seven in the morning.

 

Now, as he waited in that psychedelically-coloured Manhattan foyer, he estimated that, by the time he reached London, Hermione would probably be already in Australia. Alone! At this thought, a feeling of guilt gripped his throat in its steel grasp and didn't let go. He did, of course, try to lay the blame on her other friends, namely Potter and company. The attempt didn't quite work, however, and he ended by being furious with himself, which in turn made him seriously rethink his position on the matter. Moreover, in the course of those thirty-six hours, while bouncing from one official to another, he had come to the conclusion that he had behaved like a bloody idiot, to put it mildly. Being too wrapped up in his feelings, he had managed to fuck up their friendship pretty badly. He had run away from her when he should have stayed. He should have stuck around, no matter what.

 

Suddenly, it all became clear to him. He knew what to do. He would come back; he would accept Theo's offer; and he would stay. And if, at some point, he saw an opportunity to turn their friendship into something more, he would do it. Empowered by this decision, while still waiting for the Portkey-girl to arrive, he wrote a brief letter of resignation to his boss at the MICC, and darted to the Owlery to send it before he changed his mind and recanted yet again. He knew himself only too well: he was, after all, a bloody fickle aristocrat.

 

Unfortunately, when he returned to the Transportation Department, there were already five Japanese wizards in the queue in front of him, and the girl with short black hair, who was wearing something extremely fashion-forward, informed him, rather snappily, that he was late. He gave her a long, hard stare, which she dismissed with an annoyed shrug of her bony shoulder. "You will have to go after them," she said coldly, and gestured to the five short, black-haired, and loudly-chatting men to follow her. Thank Merlin that all those Japanese went together! A mere five minutes later, Blaise was swirling toward his destination as well. When he landed on the other side and, feeling slightly nauseous, stumbled out of the arrival room, Draco met him at the door.

 

"At last," his friend drawled, smoothing his already perfect coiffure. "I've been waiting for you for twenty minutes. Potter will bite my head off for disappearing like that in the middle of the day." Then he smiled, slapped his shoulder, and said: "Welcome home."

 

As Draco led him down the Ministry corridors to the nearest Floo, Blaise decided to broach the situation at hand.

 

"Where is she?" he asked, as soon as the feeling of nausea in his stomach had subsided.

 

"At her flat. She just came back last night. Potter and I swung by, yesterday, to check on her. She isn't in very good shape, to be honest. It hasn't been easy for her, you know."

 

"Why didn't Potter, or anyone else, go with her?"

 

"Shacklebolt had a planned public appearance yesterday. You know that our department's responsible for his safety. We really couldn't do anything."

 

"And the Weasleys?"

 

"I'm not sure. She may have taken Arthur," Draco said with a shrug, as he continued marching down the hall.

 

Sauntering after him, Blaise replayed his last words and, seizing his friend's elbow, inquired: "Hey, wait a minute. What do you mean, you and Potter swung by?" He forced Draco to stop and gazed questioningly into his grey eyes. "Have you two somehow progressed?"

 

Draco waved his hand dismissively. "Progressed would be an overstatement, Blaise. I prefer to say that we have acknowledged our mutual attraction," he said, and his lips curved in a small, satisfied smirk.

 

Blaise arched an eyebrow. "Mutual attraction? Skip the drivel, for fuck's sake, and tell me: have you shagged the living legend of Wizarding World already or not?"

 

"Piss off, Blaise," Draco barked. He pulled his elbow out of Blaise's grip and began walking again.

 

"At last! Thank you, thank you, Salazar, for small favours!" Blaise shouted with mock-gratitude, as he caught up with his friend.

 

"Shut the hell up," Draco murmured, though he didn't look angry at all. On the contrary, he looked like the cat that had finally got the cream.

 

When they reached the East Wing Floo, Draco threw a bit of powder into it and called out: "Granger, there's a half-wit here who wants to see you."

 

"Who is it, Draco?" Her muffled, tired voice reached Blaise, and the pulse in his temples began to thump loudly.

 

"It's me, darling," he drawled into the Floo.

 

He heard a squeak and hurried steps, and then Hermione's dishevelled face peered from the ashes. She shrieked: "Get over here, you bastard!" and added: "Now!"

 

"Well, good luck, mate," Draco muttered with amusement.

 

The moment Blaise stepped out of the fireplace on the other side, Hermione flew over to him, throwing her arms around his neck. The familiar jasmine scent filled his nostrils, and her curls surrounded him with their deliciously suffocating softness. He circled her waist and pressed her to him, savouring the feeling: she felt so good in his arms, so right.

 

"Blaise, you bloody git, I've missed you so much!" she whispered into his chest, and he just tightened his grip on her in reply. "Why did you disappear? Why did you leave? I needed you, you know," she continued, as her fingers found their way into his wiry hair.

 

"I've missed you too, Granger. I won't leave, this time. I'm here to stay, I promise." He pressed a soft kiss behind her ear and slowly moved his lips along its pink shell, thinking that, maybe, this was that special moment for which he had been waiting so long. Aiming at her lips, he planted a series of soft kisses along her jawline. He had almost reached them when a polite and decidedly masculine cough made him halt abruptly. She hastily disentangled herself from him and stepped back, giving him an opportunity to observe their interrupter.

 

"Oh, sorry," she mumbled, blushing, and awkwardly introduced the wizards: "Kingsley Shacklebolt, Blaise Zabini." They shook each other's hands, muttering the appropriate courtesies, though neither of them looked particularly pleased. Blaise eyed the older wizard with barely-concealed wariness. Though he had heard quite a lot about the Minister, he had never been formally introduced to him, and now, watching him up close, he was forced to acknowledge irritably that the legendary Auror did look quite impressive, which only made the question of  _what exactly he was doing at Hermione's flat_ more pressing.

 

"I shall take my leave now, Hermione," Kingsley said, and kissed her hand. Then, saying: "It was nice meeting you, Mr Zabini", with a polite nod, he stepped into the fireplace and disappeared in the roaring emerald-green flame.

 

"What in Salazar's name was he doing here?" Blaise asked, as soon as he had gone.

 

Hermione gave him a peculiar look and, twisting one of her curls nervously, confessed: "Actually, he came to ask for my hand."

 

"Your hand?" Blaise repeated, not quite grasping her meaning.

 

"He wants to marry me, Blaise."

 

*   **Supremacy/Muse**

** **505/Arctic Monkeys**  
  
---


	3. II

**_Supremacy_ **

****

 

_Sorry sweetheart, I'd much rather keep on the balaclava*_

**_II_ **

 

Granger tentatively focused her chocolate eyes on him and breathed out an explanation:  “He wants to marry me."

 

Utterly dumbstruck, Blaise just stood there for a while, watching her as she continued nervously twisting one of her springy curls. His mind simply refused to comprehend her words. After some time, he felt her worried gaze on him and hastily averted his eyes, carefully looking anywhere but at her, allowing an awkward and heavy silence to fall between them. Eventually, however, against his will, the news did sink in, with an almost palpable, rib-shattering blow to his chest.

 

“What do you mean, ‘he wants to marry you’? Why?” he finally said, pinching the bridge of his nose and noticing that his fingers were already trembling from the fury which was swiftly consuming him. Trying to keep his temper in check, he continued in a quiet snarl, carefully squeezing each word through clenched teeth as the urge to destroy something threatened to take over him. “I don’t understand. You never mentioned Kingsley in your letters. Draco also never …" At this point, he trailed off, frantically going over everything that Draco had written to him during the past year. Unable to remember anything significant, he once again turned his attention to Granger, searching her face for an explanation.

 

Alas, he didn't find anything soothing. On the contrary, her silence and unfocused gaze brought a terrible suspicion into his mind. Cursing his own stupidity, he hastily moved closer to her, lifted her chin with his thumb, forcing her to look at him, and asked, desperately seeking an answer in her eyes: “Are you two somehow involved?" Her vague head-shake did nothing to calm him, and he growled: "Did he take advantage of you? Did he force himself …” He couldn’t finish the phrase, literally choking on the words.

 

“Blaise, Blaise, calm down, please.” Hermione gave him a small smile and patted his cheek gently. “Don’t go all territorial and overprotective. I’m not a damsel in distress and Kingsley isn’t a scoundrel, far from that, and you know it. He didn’t do anything I didn’t want. In fact, he didn’t do much at all, not yet, at least: a few hugs and kisses, and a bit of cuddling last night, nothing serious, really. Quite frankly, I was surprised by his proposal as well. It seemed a bit sudden, and I told him as much. I also told him that I’d have to think about it.”

 

Looming over Hermione and gnashing his teeth in helpless agitation, Blaise fought for control over his emotions, concentrating on her warm, calming hand on his cheek. Finally, he managed to voice the question that was tearing his heart.

 

“Do you love him?”

 

She shrugged pensively and looked at the wall, as her fingers found their way into his hair again. Absentmindedly stroking his coarse locks, she said: “I'm not sure. I certainly respect him enormously, but I don’t know about love.” Frowning, she turned to him, staring intently into his eyes. “Do I even need it? You told me that lovewasn’t important, do you remember? ‘ _Love, Hermione, is a dangerous illusion. It doesn’t exist. Mutually beneficial partnership, that’s what you need for a successful alliance and your career',_ " she quoted. "I’ll be twenty-five in a few months, Blaise. Kingsley is older and definitely more experienced. We want the same things from life, and, more important, together, we can bring a much-needed change into our society. He's a good wizard, better than many. Do you know that my dad was twenty years older than my mum? Almost like Kingsley and me.”

 

Her last words had done it. The situation suddenly became too much for Blaise. He couldn’t continue to stand there and listen to her talk about marrying another wizard, especially a legendary Auror and Minister. The fact that she was throwing his own foolish theories and reckless words at him ignited his ire even more, and, unable or, perhaps, unwilling to stop himself, he blurted: “Marry me!”

 

Hermione’s eyes widened; she abruptly broke off her tirade and stepped back from him. For an eternity, or so it seemed, she peered at him wordlessly with an odd mixture of surprise, worry, and suspicion on her face. Eventually, anxious to break the unsettling silence, he repeated: “Seriously, Granger, marry me,” though with significantly less force this time, as his sudden bravado began to evaporate as swiftly as it appeared, giving place to his usual doubts.

 

_What have I done?_ dashed through his mind.The sudden fear of rejection fuelled by his stupid pride clasped his throat, squeezing it in its steel-strong grip harder and harder with each passing second. A dreadful apprehension began to fill his lungs. _What have I done?_ pulsed in his temples. He was fucking suffocating, and bloody Granger was in no hurry to save him. He knew it – she was going to reject him now and forever – he could feel it in his gut.

 

“Blaise?” Through a fog of panic, he heard her whisper and felt her warm hand on his cheek again. He faked a sudden coughing fit, shook his head and … grinned at her. _Backtracking at its finest,_ he thought bitterly. Oh yes, he was a bloody genius at this particular exercise.

 

Hermione blinked, parted her lips, and drew a shallow breath. Then, slowly, maybe even reluctantly, her lips curled upward, and she snorted. “Stop it, you bastard!” She slapped Blaise’s shoulder playfully. “You almost had me there, you know! This is a serious matter: Kingsley Shacklebolt is asking for my hand!” Her light-hearted laughter filled the room, painfully echoing in his chest. “Christ, I've missed you and your sly jokes so much. Come on, I’ll make us tea and we’ll talk.”

 

Blaise cursed inwardly and let her drag him to the kitchen, feeling that his heart was about to explode. _That’s what you get for being a fucking coward!_ he thought.

Later, after talking to Hermione for six hours straight and eventually leaving her asleep on the sofa in her living room, he released his pent-up frustration by throwing open the door of the Aurors’ quarter at the Ministry with an ear-splitting bang. Alas, that action did next to nothing for his rotten mood and only earned him a miffed glare from Draco.

 

“Blimey, it’s you, mate!” Draco exclaimed, blinking in surprise. “And what exactly has crawled up _your_ arse?"

 

“Kingsley Shacklebolt,” Blaise barked, and slumped into the chair in front of Draco’s desk, casting a Silencing Charm around them, even though they were alone in the room.

 

“Huh?” Draco said.

 

“I wonder,” Blaise muttered, moving his chair closer to the desk with a nasty scraping sound and peering balefully into his friend’s grey eyes. “Why, in Salazar’s name, is the bloody Minister asking Granger for her hand in fucking marriage, while I know nothing about it? Can you, please, explain it to me?”

 

“Marriage?” Draco said, looking as flabbergasted as Blaise had probably looked earlier, at Hermione’s flat. “I haven’t a clue. Are you quite certain?”

 

“Of course I'm bloody certain,” Blaise snapped. “Does it look as if I’m jesting?”

 

“Has she agreed?”

 

“No, not yet.”

 

“Phew, thank Merlin!” Draco breathed out in relief. “Well, bugger me, I don’t know what to tell you. They did have a few lunches together, maybe dinners as well, but I'm not sure. I never thought it was something amorous. They're both workaholics and absolute maniacs about that illusive equality to boot. I honestly couldn’t bloody imagine that he'd make such a move, never, not even in my wildest dreams. I always thought that he was asexual and practically married to the Ministry.”

 

“Balls! Here’s a news flash for you – he’s not. Apparently, he _is_ interested in witches and, on top of that, he’s after my Granger,” Blaise shouted, irritably running his hand through his hair.

 

At this, Draco chuckled dryly. “ _Your Granger_ , eh? Is she now? Well, congrats on finally making up your mind. Took you long enough, mate. Is she aware of that bit of trivia?” He arched his eyebrows and had the audacity to smirk.

 

“Piss off, Draco. I'm not in the mood,” Blaise growled, and a wave of his angry magic violently rolled over the room.

 

“That’s a _no,_ I reckon,” Draco concluded, catching the ink phials and quills in mid-flight. “Could you, please, at least _try_ to keep your temper in check?” he added, fastidiously returning everything to its place.

 

“Sorry,” Blaise said insincerely.

 

Draco waved dismissively, and for a while they sat in silence, each engulfed in his own musings. 

 

“There _is_ something fishy about it,” Draco finally said. “I don’t know what our beloved Minister is up to, but you're here now, and we’ll get to the bottom of it. I’ll ask Potter. By the way, I talked to Theo.” He chuckled. “You should have seen him: he practically danced a jig when he heard that you were here to stay. He'll be waiting for you tomorrow, bright and early! Oh, and your mother” - Draco wiggled his eyebrows - “was asking after your whereabouts. I think it’ll be better for you to make an appearance at your beloved nest at some point, preferably before she organises a search party.”

 

Draco’s innuendo about his mother irritated Blaise, and he narrowed his eyes. “I don’t recall telling you anything about staying.”

 

“You didn’t, mate. Your ex-boss, on the other hand, wailed about it from every Floo in the vicinity.”

 

“Ah, so the old bugger received my letter,” Blaise muttered, and grinned, suddenly feeling a notch better.

 

“Steady on, I’m pretty sure that that title has already been taken by my father,” Draco exclaimed in mock outrage.

 

“Sorry. I guess he’ll have to share.”

 

“You know what they say: Malfoys never share.”

 

At this moment, Potter peeked into the room for just a second and then disappeared. Draco hastily stood up, cleaned his desk with a quick wave of his hand, and announced: “We'd better go. I think a pint is in order. Tomorrow we’ll know more.” Slapping Blaise’s shoulder, he swiftly strolled from the Aurors’ quarter. Blaise grunted and hurried after him. “Will Theo come?” he asked, catching up with him in the corridor.

 

“Nope. He wanted to, but he has to entertain a delegation from Turkey.”

 

Blaise couldn’t help letting out a wry snicker. “Do you think he’ll jig for them?”

 

Draco snorted: “That depends on what and how much he’ll drink, mate.” Together they stepped into the Floo, and, mere minutes later, they had already ordered beer at the Leaky Cauldron in the company of Potter and a few other Aurors. Surprisingly, Potter turned out to be rather proficient in the consumption of alcohol, and Blaise tripped out of the fireplace of his childhood home well after midnight, harbouring the hope that his mother hadn't waited for him. Alas, a softly spoken “ _Lumos”_ dashed his hopes, as he found himself face to face with Baroness Zabini.  

 

“Son,” she said, in her measured, melodious voice.

 

“Mother,” Blaise answered with a slight slur, and sagged into the first needle-point armchair he stumbled upon. “How are you, m-mother,” he said, doing his best to lengthen his vowels properly. He wasn’t sure, however, that he had succeeded, being more than a bit tipsy. Eventually, abandoning speech altogether, he focused his attention on his mother’s face. She stood at the fireplace, leaning on the marble mantel and watching him with a subtle smile. Her green eyes shone softly in the dim light.

 

“I heard you were going to stay in England, dear.” She walked toward him and gently caressed his cheek. “Is it true?”

 

“Yes, mother.” Blaise gave her an unsteady nod. “I’m not going to live here, though. I’ll find my own place.”

“Of course, darling, of course,” she chuckled, running her hand through his short, unruly hair in a soothing gesture only mothers know. “Why didn’t you tell me that you loved that girl?” she asked after a pause.

 

“What are you talking about?” Blaise sprang up abruptly, almost tipping the armchair over in the process, and bolted toward the corridor. “Fuck,” he whispered. He definitely wasn’t in the mood or condition for a _talk_ with his mother.

 

“You know precisely,” Nina Zabini said.

 

“I don’t think it’s any of your business, mother. I think you’d better return to your intrigues and do what you do best.” Immediately, he cringed at his own words. He hadn't meant to be that sharp with her, even though he thought himself utterly right on the subject. Still, she was his mother, and she had helped him when he’d asked.

 

“Stop.” Her softly spoken command made him pause on the threshold. “I haven't always been there for you, and I am sorry about that. I cannot change the past, but I am more than willing to help you now. Please, darling, don’t let my mistakes ruin your life. Your Miss Granger is not like me. She can make you happy.”

 

Blaise listened to her words with mixed feelings: deep in his heart he knew that he was being unfair, and that she was right. His tired and intoxicated mind, however, refused to work properly and chose the easiest, most familiar way – irritation and withdrawal. “We’ll talk tomorrow, mother. I’m really tired now. Good night,” he muttered, and dove into the dark sanctuary of the corridor.

 

_*Arctic Monkeys/Balaclava_

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go, my darlings, a new story for your consideration. Please, let me know what you think. Thank you.


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